My boys think I’m stronger than daddy—

stronger in arms,

stronger in mind,

stronger in the way I hold the day together

like thread through unraveling cloth.

But they do not see

the invisible weight I carry—

the late-night thoughts,

the silent calculations,

the way my shoulders ache

from lifting what has no shape.

They see me stand.

They do not see me bend.

Do I stay and be strong,

steel-spined and steady,

the engine that never cools?

Or do I leave

and allow myself softness—

a breath, a quiet,

a version of me that isn’t always bracing?

Do I fight for the love

I deserved from the person I chose,

or do I let the love I deserve

finally choose me?

What is real strength?

Is it endurance—

running on empty

for the sake of keeping peace?

Or is it walking away

not in anger,

but in truth—

showing my boys that strength

can look like gentleness,

like boundaries,

like a woman who knows

she is allowed to rest?

Maybe strength is not

how much I can carry.

Maybe strength is learning

what I am allowed to set down.

And maybe one day

they will see—

not just the mother who held everything,

but the woman

who chose herself

so they could learn

how to choose themselves too.